Krusty Krab: Outsider's Narrative
by Guillermo Gage
Summary: An unnamed narrator uses clinical purple prose to describe his experience at the Krusty Krab.


I was baffled but also humored in a way that might not be negative. The commercial had stated, "Home of the world-famous... Krabby Patty", but you wouldn't know it from the restaurant's lack of showmanship. The actual building that is the Krusty Krab must of been some sort of round-arched wooden warehouse at a time because my eyes, after following the turquoise-painted wooden-floor panels (squeaky no doubt), followed all the way up to the ceiling, full of architecturally relevant amounts and lengths of wooden support beams.

The first two-thirds of the building starting from the front entrance was used as the public space, a rectangle of predictably safe 16:9 proportions, with yellow circles of tables polka-dotting in what was assumed to be distant enough space for each other. Beyond the teal rectangle, which housed the tables, "Condiment Island", and a jutting rowboat serving as the place for the cashier to work, a curtain of wall rose up in a straight horizontal line. Passing beyond the dull void of gray-colored planks meant going through the simplest of four possible doors, some of which must be for staff only and some of which must be restrooms.

There was a flow to the water that rolled toward me, as if it were trying to get out the way I came in, through the squeaky glass double doors. The smell of natural seawater must have been at the entrance somewhere, but it was hidden by the colorless, sterile-tasting water fresheners.

The essences of man-made sterilization bobbed past me, and abandoned me, as I took my first steps into the Krusty Krab, after which the drifting invisible spheres of industrial refresh were gradually peppered away with the spectral scentprint of sesame seeds. These phantom sesame seeds must be razor sharp, because they tear through their enemy clean-smell bubbles, chasing them away until they have me know that I am in their domain and their domain only. And they dare to chirp tinny accordion music in the background while doing it, which is quickly becoming the foreground as I make it closer to the cashier's rowboat. I have no line of customers to wait for.

The long-nosed squid of a cashier is dressed in a brown polo shirt that looks as it could qualify for civilian clothes and not just a uniform. He rouses his large, bony, grey-blue head out of his slumber to squawk robotically, "Welcome to the Krusty Krab, how may I take your order?" I suspect that he has a routine that consists of immediately going back to his half-awake upright nap if the customer seems to be new, seems to require no help and will spend time making a decision on the adjacent menu on the wall, and seems to be the only customer. I fit those qualifications and still only give him fifteen seconds of shut-eye before announcing my order as a Krabby Patty, small Diet Dr. Kelp, and small coral bits. Given that he has no sleep to rub out of his eyes right now, his droopy eyelids glide easily to their halfway point as he immediately resumes his work on me. His name tag reads Squidward, so Squidward tosses the words, "is that for here or to go?" in my direction before turning around to the fry cook's window after one second of the variable of my meal's presentation leaving hs lips. I pipe up, "for here." to the back of his sailor hat.

I hear Squidward literally reiterate my order to what seems like one person. The single, howdy reply of "One Krabby Patty and small coral bits. coooohming right uup!" zags out the window hole and rises into my air to integrate seamlessly with the howdy accordion music.

I get my small cup immediately after paying and take the most geometrical of 90-degree counterclockwise turns and fill my cup up with Diet Dr. Kelp, impatiently sucking on the cloud of soda that floats with the water in the lid-sealed cup through a routine straw.

There's a yellow circle table with the diameter not quite the finspan of the average fish person, which will more than suffice for me, right next to the drinks. But I continue on back to the cashier, who is now ready with the tray that he easily fits on the rowboat. "There's your... Krabby Patty and small.. coral bits.", he acknowledge-honks with a water of his personal finality. I take the tray like it's one of those batons at a relay race, which doesn't affect him at all. He's probably snoozing by the time I get to my table to experience this alleged world-famous burger, this quintessential food of Bikini Bottom.


End file.
